Dim of Dawn
by VampSaxAngel
Summary: Brielle Dragonkin is the last of her kind. A dwarrowdam tainted by the curse of immortality for her actions against dragon kind, she has roamed the Wild, slaying all evil she passes. It is not until a kind wizard in grey approaches her is she given reprieve from her endless roaming. But will a Dwarven king be the catalyst to her downfall or the light in her infinity?
1. A Late Addition

**Thorin Oakenshield**

I skillfully slide off the brown saddle, boots sinking into the rain rich mud on the ground. Kholoh twitches and neighs as I grasp his reigns and pull him towards a wooden beam. Beneath the pelting rain, he snorts at me, unhappy in his state. I shake my head at him and briefly slide a palm down his nose. He calms as I step back and turn, heading into the small but crowded Inn across the muddied road.

I slip through the door, avoiding contact with the men flouncing around the area, clearly having had too many ails already. Slinking through the rambuctious crowd, I sit at a table in the far corner, door still in sight as I wait for the entrance of a tall, elderly man cloaked in grey garb.

My black cloak shields my face from the curious onlookers, though many avoid my presence. Moments pass and I begin to wonder if the wizard will even show his face. I glance to the left as a table flips, ail flying as two broad shouldered men begin throwing punches. The crowd circles the action, and I catch clumsy movements between the forms of the hollering group. It seems no time at all passes before the shouting dims, and I see the victor being led out of the pub as the loser lays sprawled on the floor, unconscious. Helpful hands gather his limp body and haul him to the stairs.

I shake my head at the occurrence.

"Not one for fights, laddie?"

I look up at the voice directed at me. An older man with gray streaked, midnight hair stares down at me, a gentle gleam to his eye. A bubbling pint is overflowing and gripped in his right hand.

"Not when I am unable to see straight," I reply, keeping my hood low.

He chuckles at my words and proceeds to place the fizzing ail before me on the table. I lift a brow, prepared to argue his actions.

"Well, I'm afraid someone disagrees with you," he states humorously before melting into the crowd.

I gaze at the tin curiously, wondering who would offer me such a thing.

"I see you've received my gift," Gandalf spouts warmly, gracing the table.

I shake my head at the amused lift of his cheeks, knowing there is more to this meeting than I once believed. "Ails from you are never means for laughter. You bring news which would be best received influenced by stale liquid."

He hums and leans back in his seat, a mischievous glint in his eye as he lights the end of his pipe with a dull flame from his fingertip. "You are too cautious, Master Oakenshield." His brows raise. "Can I not offer an old friend a free drink for his troubles in meeting me?"

I cannot withhold a quiet chuckle or reel in the subtle quirk of my lips. "Old friends we are; drinking I am not. Now, what brings you to call upon me, Gandalf? We are mere days from the beginning of our travels."

He pulls his pipe from between his teeth, swinging the tip my way. "That is what I wish to speak of with you."

I tense with narrowed eyes. This journey is too important to make mistakes. "Don't tell me you're pulling from the troupe, or has your Hobbit come to his senses already?"

He scowls in return. "Do not think so lowly of Hobbits, Thorin. A mighty folk they are. You would do well to learn as such."

I roll my eyes. "I agreed to his coming at your request that he be notified beforehand. That notification which fell unto your shoulders."

"Aye." He nods. "And a sign shall be awaiting you on his door once you reach Bagend. You and your company will be most welcomed." As he says this, that same spark continues to shine, if not brighten.

I exhale, crossing my arms about my chest. Mighty Hobbits, I scoff internally, or I am not Thorin, son of Thrain. "You hold such confidence in that boy," I smart, "so what other information do you bear?"

He leans forward slightly and pushes the pint closer to me. My eyes narrow at the gesture and the way his teeth gnaw at his pipe. "There has been a late addition," he murmurs beneath the noisy veil of the pub.

I shift forward as well and take a swig of the pint. The ail is aged and warm. It heats my flesh as it travels down my throat and alights my senses. I remain silent a moment, drinking calmly but swiftly. The alcohol is weak in its essence, but it manages to calm my somewhat frazzled emotions. Finally, I rest the tin atop the table and return my gaze to Gandalf.

"You add to my company?" I ask the grey cloaked wizard, unnerved by the news.

He nods and inhales around his wooden pipe, calmly glancing over the crowded Prancing Pony. Raucous laughter and the stench of alcohol permeates the smoky area as drunken fools stumble about. I swallow back my anger at his addition to my journey to reclaim my homeland - my kingdom.

"Can I have a name, then, for the one you've called to join us?"

He exhales a puff of smoke which transforms into a ship, sailing across the room before dissipating against the far wall. "Brielle Dragonkin, the last descendant of King Azaghal."

I stare at him incredulously. "Surely not," I state.

His lips quirk with a smug smirk. "But it is true."

My gaze never shifts. I know well the tale of the Broadbeam Dwarves of Belegost. They were members from the First Age and none existed beyond that time. The greatest tale is that of Azaghal and his fall to the dragon, Glaurung, after bring fatally wounded in Nirnaeth Arnoediad. His passing marks the end of the Broadbeam line as the clan soon faded into extinction among the hills of Belegost and were never seen again. To be a descendant would be impossible, if not only for Azaghal's murder, but the time which has seen the world since the First Age. Few of that age remain and all are immortal. They being the only ones which could live for so many years without folly.

"I believe you have been cheated," I say. "My kind cannot live such an extensive amount of years."

He smiles. "Aye, your kind...but Brielle is a bit different from you, Master Oakenshield, you and your kin."

I lift a curious brow. "And what oddity would that be?"

He shakes his head, storing his pipe with the mass of robes about his forearms. "That is not for me to tell." He rises and places his pointed hat upon his head.

"You're leaving!?" I bark, hopping to my feet. "Is that all you can say?"

He grips his withered staff. "It is all I can relay," he agrees. "If your curiosity is so deep, you may ask the darrowdam herself of that which pardons her from you and your kin." He turns and begins striding to the door. I growl under my breath and quickly follow. I hold my tongue until we reach the horse mount outside.

"A stranger you bring me and my company!"

He never glances back as he begins free his horse from its restrains. "If strangers are your downfall, Thorin, then why do you entertain my addition of the Hobbit in which you hold so little faith?"

I glare as he takes off into night, leaving me to ponder his words in the growing silence of Bree. I growl once more beneath a furious scowl. Such a flighty wizard; a riddle speaking wizard no less.

I shake my head and stalk towards Kholoh, releasing the tied reigns before mounting the dark mare. I steer him towards the entrance of the city, kicking at his sides. Bree disappears behind me as I prepare for the ride to Hobbiton, more than eager to begin the adventure to retake Erebor.

I am bound to be King Under the Mountain, no matter the company which follows me. Not even that of a skilled liar, Descendant of Azaghal.

 **Hello! This is my first Hobbit story on Fanfiction and my first ever Hobbit story! I'm both excited and terrified to write , just wanna go through a few things about all this:Will I be following the movies? More or less. I'll be adding a few scenes here and there for the stories' lines be read verbatim? I suppose, technically, yes. I'm going to refamiliarize myself with the script in order to do so, but not everything will be word for this romance? Sure. It's Thorin/OC. The level of romantic interest will depend on how this all the history correct? Yes and no. I am tweaking Azaghal and Brielle's histories to fit within the story. According to Tolkien, Azaghal was a Dwarven king, and he was killed by Glaurung. How that happened and how Brielle is involved will be my messing around with other questions, feel free to ask!Otherwise, read and write!Until next time...**

 ***Find me on Wattpad as well.**


	2. Conkers Expert to a Silver Blade

**Thorin**

I shake my head, grumbling gruff tones beneath my breath at the unending stalking I seem to be repetitively partaking. The Shire, though quaint and welcoming, is a damned maze of little else other than thick green grass and minute hobbit holes sheltered with the sides of the rolling hills of Hobbiton. Before long, I wander, once again, to a great Oak which dominates a wide plain in a valley among the smoking chimneys. I trace the surroundings for the gleam of a mark upon a wooden door, but none flash before me. I inhale. Swallowing my pride, I stride to the side of the tree where a low echo of sound quakes. I come upon a group of fauntlings wielding fallen branches as weapons and sparring with a warrior's edge.

I pause my stalking, perusing the fierce little beings. One in particular, a young male with curled hair upon his brow and a stout figure upholding his miniscule stature, harbors my attention. Though a little hesitant, there is a spark within his movements, a prowess to the way in which he fiercely wields his oaken branch. Not to be startled, I creep to the squad of flailing fighters, cautious of my movements. They still are rendered motionless, despite my efforts, as I am caught in the gaze of a gentile like fauntling whom stumbles back, dropping his pretended object.

The others follow suit, all but the one which had caught my eye. He stands proud, if but a little hesitant, as the rest gather behind him. He meets my gaze before nodding once.

"Do you need assistance, Sir?" he questions with a brief pause and mild declaration.

I tilt my chin downward in reply as I come to a knee before the courageous being. "Aye. I am looking for a home called Bag End. Do you know it's name?"

He bobs his head again, more confidant now. His lips curl ever so lightly. "Yes, Sir. It's up that way." He points to a dusty path to our left. "Follow this path up the hill and around the first curve. You'll find a green door within the highest peak of Hobbiton. That is Bag End, home of Master Baggins."

"You have my thanks, Master Hobbit," I murmur, rising to my feet. I glance down at the branch now resting atop his shoulder. "You have admirable strength. Maybe one day you will wield a true blade."

His cheeks rise with a grandiose grin and a quiet rosie tint before he bends at the waist in a deep bow. "I cherish your words, Sir, and wish you well on your travels."

I leave the still cowering group with a subtle appraisal by the wave of my palm before striding along the given path. The hill is steep in relation to the rest of the tumbling lands but remains gilded by glowing blades of green and stark ocher. The sun sets swiftly during the ascent, and I finally see the door I have been searching for. An imprinted symbol shines the dousing moonlight like the gateway to Moria. It sparks a stunning silver against the bold green background, and a raucous laughter shakes the sturdy exterior from within. I hear the gruff tones of my brethren as the laughter reaches its peak before swiftly silencing as my knuckles rap against the wood.

A scuttle of feet is heard before the round door swings open to reveal a mature Hobbit with curled hair upon his brow and a stout figure upholding his miniature stature. His eyes are bathed in shock and wariness as he steps aside to allow my entrance. Beyond his shoulder, Gandalf - much too tall for the home - lumbers into the space.

"Gandalf," I greet, "I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way, twice. Wouldn't have found it at all were it not for the mark on the door." Said door sharply closes as the disgruntled hobbit speaks.

"Mark? There's no mark on that door. It was painted a week ago!" he spouts.

I lift a brow as Gandalf thumps his staff upon the floor. "There is a mark, put it there myself. Now, Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce you to the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield."

I swing my eyes up and down the short stature of the male. He is broad bellied and shifty, bound in a cotton robe which has been hastily tied, surely in danger of parting at any moment. A Hobbit he is, a general one at that. Like his brethren, I can only count for little experience. A burden and nothing more.

"So, this is the Hobbit. Tell me, Mr. Baggins, have you any experience fighting?" His brow furrows as I begin to circle his form.

"P-pardon?"

"Axe or sword?" I push. "What's your weapon of choice?"

"Well, I have some skill with conkers, but I fail to see its relevance to this odd situation."

I scoff lowly. "Thought as much." I move past the short fellow as my gaze flickers to the wizard. "He appears more as a grocer than a burglar." My words are met with rumbling laughter as Dwalin grasps my shoulder and leads me into the dining area where food and ale await. I sit at the head of the table as the rest of the company takes up the surrounding seats.

Balin is the first to conjure the meaning of our business.

"What news of the meeting in Ered Luin? Did they all come?" he questions.

"Aye." I nod, sipping the light alcohol. "Envoys from all seven kingdoms." A slight applause echoes.

"What of the dwarves in the Iron Hills?" Dwalin follows. "Is Dain with us?"

My eyes drift to the soup I'm mindless stirring. "They claim this quest is ours, and ours alone." Disappointed murmurs surround me at the disheartening news. I cannot dissuade my agreement to their quiet mumblings. Dain was one I had counted on to stand by me. He and I are much the same, but my discontent at the loss of my home has made me ill hearted and guarded stone. Though I hope to dismiss the thought of war, the lack of my kin's support is fairly discouraging, but I will not stop nor stall. His presence will be surely missed should worse come to worse.

"You're going on a quest?"

I blink, brow furrowing as the Hobbit's voice breaks my mental concentration. I narrow my eyes at him as Gandalf bids a request for more light, which is quickly granted by a single candle within the short figure's palm. I lean forward in avid rapture as a withered parchment is spread upon the wooden surface by the wizard's elder hands.

"Far to the east, over rivers and plains, beyond woodlands and wastelands, towers a solitary peak..."he recites.

"The Lonely Mountain."

"Aye!" Gloin asserts. "Oin has read the portents, and the portents say it is time."

"Ravens have been seen flying towards the mountain. When the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end," Oin quotes, his curled and braided beard bouncing with the movements of his jaw.

At the mention of the beast, the Hobbit's face sinks with worry and concern, if but a touch of fear. "Uh, a beast?"

Bofur straightens his bag in eager acknowledgement. "That would be Smaug the Terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our time. Fire breathing, teeth like razors, claws like meathooks, extremely fond of precious metals-"

"Yes, yes, I know what a dragon is," the Hobbit sharply interjects.

Ori hops up in response, his accented tone gentle despite his harsh words. "I'm not afraid! I'm up for it. I'll give him a taste of Dwarvish iron right up his 'ole jacksie."

Several in the company shout before Dori reels his brother down to his seat. "Sit down!"

Balin exhales, catching my attention as his eyes travel over the occupants around the table. "This task would be difficult enough with an army behind us. We number a mere thirteen, none of which are the best nor brightest Dwarven folk."

A roarous reprisal of fierce objections follow the statement, Fili's voice echoing in the dim. "We may be few in number, but we're fighters, right down to the last dwarf!"

Pride boils within my heart at my nephew's words. Being the next in line to the throne of Erebor, I have tried, diligently, to mold him into a great leader. Though it was of little work on my part. His father was an honorable man, and Fili upholds each persistent quality of a leader among any race. I have only ever instilled within him the loyalty and kingly prowess of myself, my father, and my grandfather, and he has taken it in with the effervescent quality akin to wet sand which soaks up water.

"And you forget," my other nephew adds, "we have a wizard in our company. Gandalf is sure to have killed hundreds of dragons within his time."

This comment leads to a stuttering wizard and Dori continuing to press the matter until all have joined in the argument. The noise level rises and I soon rise to my feet.

"Shazara! [ _silence_ ] We have read the signs! Do you not believe others have read them as well? Rumor has spread of Smaug's disappearance. For sixty years he has remained unseen! There are eyes which look to the east, to the mountain, waiting, wondering, weighing the risks. The vast wealth of our people may lay unprotected. Do you we sit back while others take back what is ours, or do we seize the chance to reclaim Erebor? Du bekar! Du bekar! [ _To arms! To arms!_ ]"

Again, through the cheers, Balin sees clarity. "You forget the front way is shut. There is no way into the mountain!"

A familiar glimmering mischievous fills the wizard's gaze. "That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true." He fiddles with the folds of his robes before producing a small, ornately wrought key of gilded iron. I stare, entranced, at the very object which would reveal Erebor's once light filled and joyous halls. I reach a hand forward, fingers trembling.

"How came you by this?" I wonder breathlessly.

"It was given to me by your father, Thrain, for safe keeping. It is yours now."

The company goes on to establish there is indeed another way in as Gandalf eludes to the map and the runes encrypted upon it. A low passage which would allow us entry. This indubitably leads to the reasoning for the Hobbit's presence.

"This is why we need a burglar," Ori states.

The Hobbit hums in agreement. "A good one, too. An expert, I'd imagine."

"And are you?" Gloin asks.

"A what?" the short fellow retaliates, clearly confused.

Oin, in partaking the fellows growing ignorance, exudes, "He says he's an expert! Hey, hey!"

"M-me? Oh, no, no, no, no, no. I'm not a burglar. I've never stolen a thing a day in my life!"

"I'm afraid I have to agree with Mr. Baggins," Balin says as the Hobbit nods in agreement. "Can't say he's quite burglar material."

"Aye," Dwalin gruffs. "The Wild is no place for gentlefolk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves."

Loud exclamations back the roughly spoken statement, and it is not long before the air turns cold and Gandalf fills the corner of the room. Shadows creep forward as his power infused voice deepens.

"Enough! If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is," the wizard thunders before the shadows melt away and the air grows still. "Hobbit's are remarkably light on their feet, able to walk unseen by many. Though the smell of dwarf is familiar to the dragon, the scent of Hobbit will be most unknown to him, giving us a distinct advantage. You asked me to find the burglar of our company, and I have chosen Mr. Baggins. Appearances may be lacking, but he has a far greater deal to offer than any of you know, even himself. You must trust me on this."

His gaze meets mine, and I stare at him before sighing in defeat. "Very well. We will do this your way." Adament disagreements tumble from the Hobbit's lips, and I turn to Balin. "Give him the contract."

"Alright!" Bofur exclaims. "We're off!"

A long piece of withered parchment is passed to the still quarreling Hobbit. "It's just the usual summary of out-of-pocket expenses, time required, remuneration, funeral arrangements, and so forth," Balin clarifies.

"F-funeral arrangements?" the Hobbit gasps.

He moves away, reading through the contract with growing anxiety, and I tip my head towards the wizard.

"I cannot guarantee his safety," I murmur.

"Understood."

My eyebrows raise. "Nor will I be responsible for his fate."

"Agreed."

I glance back at the bumbling Hobbit before turning back to the grey cloaked man. "Tell me, where is this addition you spoke of mere days before?"

He hums, pulling out his pipe. "Quite close, I believe. She is always late, I'm afraid. She will, of course, be a most valuable asset."

"Late or not coming at all?" I wonder sardonically.

He glances my way just as his eyes alight and a gentle rapping his heard against the door. Silence befalls the room as the Hobbit stumbles to the entryway, contract clenched between his fingers. The wizard and I follow him to the door, and the rest of the company shadows our steps, smothering the short space.

The door swings open to reveal a short - shorter than myself - being cloaked in black with a heavy hood pulled low over their head. A long, thick braid of entwining strands of roaring flame fall down the stranger's right shoulder with two smaller and more intricate plaits cascading down the other. Metal clasps of elegant inscription hold the strands together. The stranger bows, and I see a sheath of a heavy long sword on their left hip with two short sword sheaths on the other.

"Brielle Dragonkin," a soft, though somehow rough, voice dipped in Satin and velvet greets, "at your service."

"B-Bilbo Baggins, at yours," the Hobbit greets, scooting to the side as the dwarrowdam steps into the room. Behind me, the company is wholly silent. Gandalf is the first to pass on greeting, a smile lifting his bearded cheeks. My form, however, is entirely hardened with unease. Though the girl is small in stature and quaint, something within me is anxious at being in her presence.

"It is a pleasure to see you, my Lady."

Soft ivory hands lift to the hood, pushing it back to reveal a pale face with rosy cheeks, pink lips, and stunning irises of amber and gold dipped in starlight. Her cheeks lift with a gentile smile as she turns her gaze up to the towering wizard.

"Likewise, Master Gandalf." Her eyes flicker across the company, and I see recognition catch as she stares at me. She strides forward and drops to a knee before me. "An honor, Master Oakenshield."

I hesitate, slightly stunned at the attention. "Rise."

She comes up and stares into my eyes as Gandalf's broad hand lands on her shoulder. "Miss Dragonkin, I would like to introduce you to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield. Balin, Dwalin, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Oin, Gloin, Ori, Nori, Dori, Fili, and Kili," the wizard points out. "This is Brielle Dragonkin, the fifteenth member of our company."

She nods to everyone, and they return the gesture. It doesn't take long, of course, for my much too flirtatious nephews to be at her sides. I scowl.

"You're a stunning lass," Kili immediately flirts with a smirk and a wink. Brielle, to my surprise, only twitches a brow in response.

"Thank you, Master Kili," she murmurs.

"Lady Brielle," Fili starts, "you have impressive weapons at your side. What is your wield of choice?"

"Short swords," she replies without hesitation. "Though, daggers are my passion." She removes her cloak as she speaks, revealing a deep violet tunic, twine trousers, and black boots. Her person is covered in metal from shoulder to boot with peeking hilts of daggers. Fili steps back in shock, and her face curves with an arrogant smirks.

"Well, lass," Balin rumbles, stepping up beside me, "it seems you will fit in well."

She smiles and bows. "Thank you, Master Balin. Ah, Master Baggins, would it be alright if I hung my cloak?" she wonders sweetly.

The Hobbit quickly smiles in return, retrieving the fabric and hanging it on a hook near the door. He gestures to her weapons but she declines, instead focusing on the parchment still in his hand. She swiftly steals the object, eyes perusing the words as she ventures back into the dining area. She flattens the paper atop the wood as the company once again surrounds the table. The Hobbit hovers about her person as the words tumble from her lips. Bofur begins a long crescendo of descriptions for the beast and the numerous ways in which it can instill death upon the small grocer. It seems no time at all that the Hobbit is on the floor, breathing steadily in unconsciousness. Brielle glares at the dwarf, and I narrow my eyes at her. She turns away and swiftly moves the fainted man into a chair in another room. Gandalf follows soon after.

Brielle returns with a quill in hand, signing her name on the contract with a subdued flourish.

"This is a dangerous quest you are venturing on," she murmurs quietly, and all eyes shift to her as she stands tall. "I hope you know of the consequences you may encounter. A dragon is no simple enemy."

"It is fortunate, then, we are in your company," Balin states, and all eyes move to him, except mine. I keep Brielle in my gaze, catching the subtle twitching of her fingers as if they yearn to grasp her sword.

Her jaw clenches, and her eyes harden to golden coins. "I'm afraid I am unfamiliar with what you mean."

Balin smiles and his eyes shine. "Ah, Miss Dragonkin, I am familiar with the tale of Azaghal. A fine king he was, my Lady, and struck too soon by such a great beast."

"What's he goin' on about?" Kili asks.

"My father was slain by the dragon Glaurung in the First Age," Brielle replies, adding nothing more.

"And for that, your presence is questionable." Her eyes shift to me at my gruff tone. My hardened stare meets hers. "You are hardly old enough to be of the First Age, much less an heir to Azaghal."

To my surprise, she smirks humorously. "Not all are as they seem, Thorin Oakenshield. As for my past, there may come a day when I trust you enough to tell you." She steps away from the table as Gandalf returns, curiously watching Brielle leave. "I must get some air. I will return at dawn."

I rise from my chair as she disappears around the corner, followed by the subtle click of the door. A beat of silence comes before the dwarves begin moving into a separate area of the house where a fire roars. Gandalf looks down upon me, an unreadable emotion in his eyes.

The patter of bare feet echoes as the Hobbit shifts down the hallway. Balin sighs as we watch him go, and the elder dwarf moves to my side.

"It would seem we've lost our burglar. It is probably for the best. After all, what are we? Merchants, miners, tinkers, toy makers. We are hardly the stuff of legends."

"There are a few warriors amongst us," I mumble, watching the company in the living area.

"Old warriors," Balin scoffs.

I turn my head to look down at him. The doubt is clear within his irises. "I would take each and every single dwarf here over an entire army from the Iron Hills. When I called, they came. Honor. Loyalty. A willing heart. I can ask no more than that."

He shifts next to me, boots clanking. "You don't have to do this, Thorin. You have a choice. You've done right by our people, and you've built us a life in the Blue Mountains, one of peace and plenty. It is worth more than all the gold of Erebor."

I swallow and lower my gaze to the key in my hand, holding it proudly between us. "From my grandfather to my father, this has come to me. They dreamt of the day when the dwarves of Erebor reclaimed their homeland." I inhale. "There is no choice, Balin, not for me."

He squeezes my shoulder, nodding in confidence. "Then we are with you, laddie. We will see it done."

I lay my hand upon his shoulder in return and lead us to the company. I release him as we step over the threshold, and I allow my eyes to shift over each member of the company. They lounge in chairs, stand against the wall, or lean upon their hands on the wooden floor. I stride to the hearth, leaning an arm against it as I gaze into the blaze.

In the golden flares, I can envision the halls of a home lost. Cold stone once filled with roaring fires, joy, laughter, and the clinking of metal against earthen forge decorated by splendor. The King's Halls, the atrium to the great mountain, which holds the crowning jewel of our people, a gem so pure it gleams with the very starlight which fills the night sky. A copious dwelling littered with meticulous stones and warm gold and flaming forges. A home lost to a beast of destruction and death. My home, which I will reclaim, no matter the cost.

I breathe deeply, inhaling the scent of fresh firewood. A tone fills my mind which transforms into a smooth hum. The melody is met by others as a song of old befalls my lips.

 _Far over the Misty Mountains cold_

 _To dungeons deep and caverns old_

 _We must away ere break of day_

 _To find our long forgotten gold._

My brothers join, and the words swell in the low ceiling room, echoing throughout the halls.

 _The pines were roaring on the height_

 _The winds were moaning in the night_

 _The fire was red, it flaming spread_

 _The trees like torches blazed with light._

 **Whoa. Mmkay. So, there's that. As you can see, some of its verbatim, some isn't, and some - such as with Brielle - is warped to fit the story. I'm running off a transcript to get the feel of everything, but I'm not claiming accuracy or verbatim writing. Regardless, hope you enjoyed, and please comment! I would love to hear your thoughts.~Zoe**


	3. The Pale Orc

**Thorin**

Dawn comes swift and silent, creeping up in variants of yellow and orange before melting into an opalescent blue. Few clouds fill the painted space, and I am more than grateful for the soothing chill of a light breeze beneath the heavy garb and cloak. I move about the room, kicking and waking each member of the company. Balin and Dwalin are already up, conversing quietly in the corner. Once the groaning and moaning of the early hour surround me, I meander to my adviser and oldest friend. The quiet talk stops as I come closer. I glance between the brothers suspiciously.

"What are you two talking about?"

Dwalin crosses his arms as Balin clears his throat. "Brielle hasn't returned," the eldest states.

I raise a brow. "And?"

"Well, we don't know where the lass went last night. I suppose we were just a bit worried, that's all."

I shake my head. "We worry for no one but the company. Besides, her name is on the contract, and she said she would return. If she is serious to join us, we will believe the word she has given us."

I move away from them and wander outside. All of the ponies are tied to the post beyond the small gate, and a new friesian is happily munching away beside Kholoh. It and Kholoh lift their heads when I come closer, and I feed my pony an apple before stroking his snout. The other nudges my free hand, and I stroke its fur as well.

"You're lucky she didn't kick you."

I freeze at the voice, turning my head to see Brielle standing behind my shoulder. She smiles and moves to rub the pony's mane. I stare at her, continuing my ministrations.

"Does she often kick others?"

She chuckles. "Not always, but she is particularly fearful of Dwarven men."

"Why?" I wonder.

She sighs and steps closer until her cheek is pressed against the pony's neck. "She was mistreated by her past owners. I stole her from their farm two years ago and nursed her back to the healthy girl she is now."

I hum appreciatively. "Her name?"

"Dolek."

" _Gift_ ," I murmur, knowing and liking the Khuzdul as it falls from her lips.

"A gift to me from Aule, or so I believe. Your steed, however, what is his title?"

"Kholoh," I say, moving away to mount the animal.

I watch her do the same upon Dolek, but her eyes never leave me. " _Hero_ ," she replies, translating.

I nod as the company slowly joins us outside. "A righteous steed who has done heroic deeds. He's been in my company through many dangers."

She merely bows her head in response before steering away and sidling up beside Gandalf as the company falls in line behind me and we venture out of the Shire and into the surrounding forest.

"Hey, Bofur!" Kili shouts.

"Aye, laddie?" the hatted dwarf replies.

"What say you to a bet?"

"Depends on the subject."

"Bilbo. Do you think he will come or not?"

A round of bets are thrown around; even the wizard is in on the game. I roll my eyes at their childishness and scoff at the idea of the Hobbit's return. No doubt he will be happy with our departure. He was made for the softer side of life. Small chairs, brilliant gardens, and family's trinkets laid out to display. No fighting, no running, just merry living, but the world does not cater to the peaceful and kind. It moves, leaps and bounds, for the vile, putrid, and evil beings which roam this forsaken earth. Should that Hobbit never leave his home, darkness is sure to come knocking all on its own. What would he do with us? He would be no more than a hindrance. He would have no knowledge of wielding a blade or living on what the earth provides. Handkerchiefs and endless eating. That is the life of a Hobbit, not this journey or call to the beyond, knowing but unknowing of the dangers and events which lie ahead. A hindrance, indeed.

"If you're not careful, your face will get stuck that way."

I blink, glancing over at the dwarrowdam. Her gaze remains ahead, wholly focused on the land before us. It takes a moment for her words to take meaning, but I scoff the second they do.

"It is not care which makes me look this way," I reply.

"Oh?" she lilts. "It is not thought, then, that ails you? You're thinking of Master Baggins."

"The grocer, you mean. He will not come. His home is in a hole in the ground, surrounded by nothing but his trinkets. I doubted his presence the moment Gandalf mentioned him. The trip to the Shire was a waste of time."

"Wait! Wait!" A few members of the company call out to the ponies as we all come to a stop. I turn atop the saddle to see none other than the Hobbit huffing and puffing as he pushes his small legs as quickly as they will go. He stops beside Balin and holds up the contract. "I signed it!"

A celebratory roar echos from some of the dwarves as I look on, unimpressed, once Balin announces the grocer's entrance into the company. Sighing internally, I tell them to get him a pony, and it's not long before he is awkwardly sitting on a spotted animal whom bumps her head at the way he holds the reins.

Brielle looks back at him over her shoulder, and a smirk alights her features. "A waste of time, you say?" she mocks. "Something tells me you will rue your words, Master Oakenshield."

With that skimping remark, she takes off to the back of the line and trots along side the Hobbit as she and Gandalf converse, the words too faint to be identified. Soon, bags of coins are sailing through the air as the bet gets settled, and I grow even more irritated as the Hobbit once against calls us to a stop, but the idea of turning back is quickly dismissed, and we journey on until the edge of a cliff comes in sight. I call us to rest for the night. Loud snoring echoes over the sharp corner overhanging the lower valley. I rest against a large rock, and Brielle sits upon one nearby, staring out at the darkened world below. I succumb to a light sleep, ever alert of the movements around me until a high pitched shriek jolts me awake. I open my eyes to see the company rousing, and the Hobbit skimping closer to the fire.

"Orcs," Kili replies to an unheard question.

The Hobbit's eyes grow wide. "Orcs?"

"Aye," my eldest nephew says. "Throat-cutters. There'll be dozens of them out there. The lowlands are crawling with them."

"They strike in the wee hours of the night, when everyone sleeps. Swift and silent; no screams, just lots of blood."

The Hobbit looks utterly terrified, and my jaw tenses when my nephews laugh at his fright. I stand, striding closer to them. "You think that's funny?" I growl. "You think night raids by orcs is a joke?"

Kili looks down shamefully. "We didn't mean anything by it."

I shake my head. "No, you didn't. You know nothing of the world."

I turn away from their stares and find myself standing beside Brielle who has not left her position since our arrival. I mirror her stare over the valley.

"Don't mind him, laddie," Balin tells the small, still scared figure. "Thorin has more cause than most to despise the orcs. You see, after the dragon took the Lonely Mountain, Thror tried to reclaim the ancient dwarf kingdom of Moria. Unfortunately, our enemy had gotten there first. Moria had been overrun by legions of orcs, all led by the most gruesome member of their race: Azog, the Defiler. The giant Gundabad Orc had sworn to end the line of Durin." He paused. "He began by beheading the king."

Gruesome visions of the past scroll through my mind. I remember, with perfect clarity, how Thror stood up against the Defiler, fighting to end the war among us, but he was too weak against the creature. He was mercilessly behead right before my eyes, his lifeless head rolling to my feet as unbearable anguish ripped through my core.

"Thrain, Thorin's father, was driven mad by grief. He disappeared; captured or killed, we do not know. But our leaders were gone, and death and defeat were upon us."

I close my eyes. My father had wept in those few final moments of which I saw him. Never before had I seen him so utterly vanquished, felled to the pitfalls of madness before vanishing altogether. Somewhere within, I had found the strength and anger to take on the orc myself, regardless of the consequences to my life.

"That is when I saw him: a young prince facing down the Pale Orc, wielding nothing by a study oaken branch and standing alone."

I glance down at my hand, practically feeling the weight of the weapon which rid Azog of this world, cursing him to bleed out from his missing limb which I so gratefully cut off.

"Azog, the Defiler, learned that day that the line of Durin would be not so easily broken, and with newfound strength, our forces rallied against the horde of orcs and drove them back to whence they came. But there was no celebration of victory that night as our grief was all too consuming. Only us few had survived."

I remember the sun sinking over the distant hill that day, clear as a painting. Having seen my fellow race fall so brutally to the hand of orcs and the selfish king turning away from my people, I had hardened near to stone, knowing there was no need for broken emotions. The world does not stop for grief, nor does it freeze for happiness. The world of evil turns constantly and repetitively, never offering a reprieve. Yet, I had stared into the glow of the sun with tears streaming down my face.

"And I thought to myself then, there is one I could follow. There is one I called king."

I turn at his words, meeting the eyes of the company, each pair of irises shimmering with admiration. To what exactly, I am unsure, but I move closer to the flames, closer to the others.

"But the pale orc?" the grocer presses. "What happened to him?"

I scowl. "He slunk back into the hole from whence he came. The filth died of his wounds long ago."

The air calms and silences as I return to the rock, laying back against the surface. I reach into my coat to pull out my pipe, before filling it and setting the contents aflame. From the corner of my eye, Brielle watches me with interest and a touch of curiosity.

"You should not stare," I tell her around the lip of the pipe.

"You should not hide your grief."

I lift my head to meet her gaze, brows furrowing at her words. "I'm hiding nothing. Now, go. Rest. We have a long journey ahead of us."

She shakes her head. "No, you are hiding it," she states assuredly as she rises to her feet. She moves closer until we're toe to toe, and I am looking up at her moonlight covered features. Her hair shines a dull bronze in the darkness, and I wonder why that subtle glow is more interesting than the fiery gold in the sunlight. "You cannot keep everything locked away inside, Master Oakenshield. It will only eat away at you and harm you more."

I glare. "What do you know of this or anything else?"

She blinks, eyes hard. "I know a great many things, Master Dwarf, and you cannot keep secrets from those who are just the same."

She walks away before I question her words, and I rest back against the stone, lost in the glow of the stars and her voice circling in my head.


End file.
